A storm churned across the skies as thousands gathered in the Obsidian Arena, the grand coliseum of the Flesh God's domain. Carved from the bones of divine beasts and the ruins of fallen sects, the arena pulsed with lust, power, and Qi-hunger.
Above it all, enthroned beneath a black-gold canopy, sat Xie Wuyou—legs spread, arms resting lazily upon the armrests shaped from kneeling concubines. His robe hung open, chest bare, radiating divine dominance. His twelve collared goddesses stood below, trembling with spiritual heat and shame.
"Strip," he commanded.
And the collars obeyed.
In an instant, shimmering divine silks evaporated into mist, leaving behind only bodies — trembling, divine, and fully exposed to the crowd of thousands. Gasps echoed through the arena. The goddesses turned crimson, but none dared cover themselves. Not with the obedience crests glowing on their wombs.
"You were once worshipped. Now, you will fight for the right to kiss the dirt beneath my foot."
The crowd roared.
Ritual spears dropped from the sky, enchanted not to kill — only to strip, bind, and shame. The goddesses lunged forward, their pride and power replaced by a desperate hunger: to be seen, to be chosen.
The elf queen clashed with the sun priestess, their bodies locking in a tangle of desperate movement. The fox queen leapt onto the back of the dragoness, biting at her shoulder, the collar around her neck pulsing with magic.
As they fought, Wuyou sipped wine from the lips of a kneeling spirit maiden, utterly calm, watching with bored amusement as goddesses humiliated themselves for his attention.
One goddess was knocked to the floor — her face smearing across the dirt of the arena. She moaned. Instead of rising, she pressed her cheek deeper into the ground.
"Please… Master… notice me…"
Another fell, her breasts dragged along the stone floor as she crawled to his throne, bloodied and breathless, eyes full of tears and devotion.
"I'll do anything… Anything… Just let me kiss your boot…"
The crowd chanted his name.
He stood.
The air fell silent.
Wuyou stepped forward, descending from his throne — each footfall ringing like divine judgment. He approached the broken, groveling forms of his once-proud goddesses. He placed one foot upon the back of the sun priestess, grinding her into the earth.
"Is this your divinity now?" he whispered coldly.
"Yes, Master… My divinity… is yours to crush…"
He raised his hand, and from above, dozens of golden collars rained from the heavens — more goddesses, watching from the skies, descended willingly into the arena, crawling toward the arena floor, naked, needy, and hungry for chains.
The Throne of Flesh was no longer a chair.
It was an empire.